


Between the Lines

by tarysande



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted the quiet stories, the ones not about heroes or witches or monsters, but about lads who left their farms to serve the king because it would bring money after a bad harvest, or lasses who traveled to the heart of the darkest forest to fetch herbs needed for healing a dying mother. He liked the stories his siblings never chose, the ones about ordinary people doing extraordinary things not because they were nobility or special or chosen, but because they had honor, or love, or saw wrongs that needed righting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtomicPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/gifts).



_In a good book, the best is between the lines._

_-Swedish proverb_

 

_Honnleath_

Every time he returned from one of his trips, Cullen’s father brought treats. Usually sweets, though often spices and candied fruit and bolts of fine cloth, if the trading had been good.

After the best trips, his father returned with a new book. As this only happened about once a year, the new tome was savored instead of devoured, morsels read aloud after dinner better than any dessert. Though the daily allotment disappeared in what seemed a moment, after ten pages the bookmark was always placed, the book always returned to the shelf with its well-loved brethren, and pleas for _one more page_ or _just until the end of the chapter_ went steadfastly ignored.

One year the book was a history of Ferelden, filled with battles and kings and queens and intrigues. Cullen liked the battles, but the politics he found dull, even when Mia tried to explain how exciting, how much like a game of chess it would be, living at the heart of such machinations. Another year brought a book about mabari, which only made them all beg for a pup of their own, even though—as their father told them sadly—a backwater town like Honnleath was no place for a noble war hound. The poor thing would only get bored and tear all the pillows to shreds, thinking them enemy soldiers. Bran complained the year of the book about the Chantry, until the first time Andraste set off for battles of her own. Cullen found it interesting, and wondered why the Honnleath Revered Mother never talked about Andraste like this story did. He thought more people might’ve kept their eyes open during services if she did.

The best book, the year no one complained, was one of stories collected from all across Thedas. They were the kinds of stories that sounded too far-fetched to be real, and yet too detailed to be the product of imagination. Rosie liked the stories about griffons, and Mia always chose ones about the Witch of the Wilds. Branson went farther afield, when it was his turn to choose, sending them to the mountains of the Anderfels one week and the heat of Tevinter another.

Much as he loved the stories, Cullen didn’t like when it was his turn to choose one. He wanted the quiet stories, the ones not about heroes or witches or monsters, but about lads who left their farms to serve the king because it would bring money after a bad harvest, or lasses who traveled to the heart of the darkest forest to fetch herbs needed for healing a dying mother. He liked the stories his siblings never chose, the ones about ordinary people doing extraordinary things not because they were nobility or special or _chosen_ , but because they had honor, or love, or saw wrongs that needed righting.

After the third time Bran groaned, “Not again, Cully, give us a sword fight at _least,_ ” Cullen chose a story about the Grey Wardens pushing back against yet another tide of darkspawn. It had griffons for Rosie and fights for Bran and magic for Mia.

That night, Cullen lay awake, counting stars through the bedroom window. When Bran started snoring, Cullen pushed back the blankets, waited to make certain his brother would not wake, and padded as silently as he could into the main room. He was tall enough now to reach the shelf of books without aid of a stool. His fingers closed around the smooth leather and he pulled it free, half expecting one of his parents to come dashing from the bedroom, or for Mia to appear behind him to pull on his ear and drag him back to bed.

Not wanting to risk a candle or stirring the banked fire, he moved to the brightest window—both moons shone down, painting the world silver—and found the story he’d truly wanted to choose. It was about a lad who thought he was on a quest to save a lass, but in truth it was the lass saving him, enticing him out of his dull life with his dull problems, every day the same as the day before.

He was so engrossed in the tale he did not hear his father enter, was not aware even of his presence until he sat down next to him.

Cullen didn’t try to hide the book, didn’t try to pretend or make excuses. He said, “I’m sorry, Da,” and his father smiled.

“I like that one, too,” said his father, dragging one fingertip over the illustration marking Cullen’s page. “Mind if we read it together?”

 

_Redcliffe_

Cullen had expected templar training to be difficult. He’d prepared himself for long days and little sleep, for bruises much worse than anything Bran swinging a wooden stick as a sword could offer. He knew he would be older than many of the other recruits, and that he would have to work harder to make up for lost time. He’d thought himself capable of facing the challenge.

The hardest of all, as it happened, was the homesickness. Even through his exhaustion, even when he was blinking his eyes to keep awake through dinner, the feeling of loss plagued him. More than once, he called his fellow recruits by his siblings’ names; more than once he woke wishing he could help his mother knead bread, or his father plan the season’s trade expedition. He missed sitting around the fire after dinner, listening to familiar voices read familiar stories.

Now, he read only Chantry materials. History, lectures, the Chant itself. When he wasn’t fumbling his way around the practice yard realizing wooden sticks were not very much like swords at all, or that using a bow was not near as simple as it looked, or that wielding a stave was as liable to end with him hitting his own head as someone else’s, he was reading.

Some of the other recruits laughed at his dedication to words. They snickered behind his back and made comments about the inadequacy of his sword-work just loud enough for him to hear. One lad, whose wealthy parents had spared no expense preparing him for his “exalted purpose,” took every opportunity to say, never _to_ Cullen, but in his hearing, “Ser Bookish plans to defeat evil with words, don’t you know. If all else fails, he’ll just chuck a book at an abomination’s head. Can’t be worse than that thing he calls a thrust.”

Cullen ignored him. He fingered the coin his brother had pressed into his palm; he thought about stories shared after dinner; he woke an hour earlier every morning to practice footwork; he memorized not just every Divine, but her major contributions, and where she fit into the history he remembered from his father’s book about Ferelden. He learned the Chant. He read about weapons—their history, their purpose, their schematics—so he’d understand them better.

When the lad with the wealthy parents was sent home after his third year—and his more-than-third ‘second’ chance—Cullen did not gloat. He read about magic, instead, and the role of templars, and the importance of purpose and honor and duty.

He didn’t have time to read stories about ordinary folk doing extraordinary things anymore, but sometimes, sometimes, he wondered if he might one day be considered one of them.

 

_Kinloch Hold_

Much as he loved books, Cullen found guard duty in the Circle library torturous. It pained him to be so near such a treasure trove, forbidden to touch, except in the rare off-duty hours when his presence in the library was permitted. While he was meant to be watching the apprentices carefully, or scanning for danger amongst the Enchanters, he caught himself wandering the spines with his gaze. He’d never seen so many books in his life; never imagined so many books were even _possible_.

He’d made the mistake, in his awe, of saying so, which only earned him a sneer of contempt from Ser Erric, who claimed to have seen larger libraries in Denerim; in Ostwick’s Circle; in Kirkwall, on his way through. Afterward, Ser Erric took it upon himself to comment every time he saw Cullen with a book in his hands. Cullen stopped reading at dinner. After his bunkmates complained about the light, he stopped reading even in the relative safety of his own bed.

Instead, he woke early or stayed up late, waiting until he was certain most of the Circle’s denizens would be abed. Then he went to the library, ran his fingertips along the spines he’d spent his last guard shift perusing from a distance. Sometimes, with so much choice before him, he could not even decide which to read, and caught in a paroxysm of indecision, merely stared.

One one such occasion, long past the hours when apprentices were meant to be safely in their rooms and sleeping, he was interrupted by a startled yelp and a curse. Even before he turned, he knew it would be Solona Amell standing at the end of the stacks, failing to look appropriately contrite.

He wasn’t wrong. She offered him a wry smile and said, “Any chance we could pretend you didn’t see me in here? They do get tetchy when I wander. Even if it’s just to find another book to keep me company.”

Her words so closely echoed his own feelings that he laughed before he could think better of it. “I confess we’re here for the same reason, then.”

She glanced over his shoulder. “You have a deep interest in… _The Mating Rituals of the Common Nug_?”

He flushed and would have left immediately in mute horror, but she was blocking his way. And grinning. Impishly, she held a single finger to her lips. “What do you say, Ser Cullen? Forget to report this, and I’ll show you where they hide the novels.”

“Recommend one,” he heard his own traitorous voice saying, “and you’ve a deal.”

 

_Kirkwall_

Cullen’s first thought, his first _stupid_ Maker-forsaken thought, when he saw the Kirkwall Circle’s library was _bloody hell, that bastard Erric was right about the size of this place._ His second and third thoughts reminded him with vicious clarity what happened to Erric, and Annlise, and nearly everyone else, all the broken bodies, all that blood, the screaming that went on for days and days. Those were the dangerous thoughts, thoughts he’d spent months trying to bury, to banish, to beat into submission. He avoided the library like he avoided all other reminders of his past, of Ferelden, of who he’d been and what he’d done. And not done.

A year into his service in Kirkwall, a year into the promotion he didn’t deserve that alienated him from virtually everyone in the Circle, mage and templar alike, Cullen noticed how heavily the library was guarded at all times. When he raised the question—“It seems a waste of manpower if nothing else, Knight-Commander,”—she peered at him the way one might peer at a sudden spider, wondering if it was venomous or not.

She said, “Knowledge in the wrong hands, Knight-Captain, is dangerous. Surely you, of all people, must see this.”

He nodded. During the sleepless nights, the nights he woke from nightmares, he often lay in his bed, sweating and trembling, wondering what they’d all missed, with Uldred. On nights when he woke angry, he wondered if free access to the library and all its knowledge had fueled Uldred. On nights when he grieved, he wondered if those same books had held answers that could have spared more their suffering, their deaths.

After Hawke was named Champion, access to the library was suspended indefinitely. Meredith looked to him and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if he’d challenge her decree.

More coward he, he did not. Still, something shifted as he watched her turn the key in the lock before attaching it to a ring she kept with her at all times. At night, when he woke from his nightmares, he no longer thought about Kinloch Hold. He thought about Kirkwall. The silent hallways, the abundance of guards, restrictions upon restrictions upon restrictions. Haunted eyes. The dearth of conversation and laughter.

Even the youngest children knew it was no longer safe to laugh in Kirkwall’s Circle.

He heard rumors, of course, of clandestine meetings—groups above three or four adults were no longer permitted to meet, no matter how many templars were guarding them—and a black market in books. It was easy enough to root them out, easy enough to change the rotation of the guard, easy enough to arrive alone one evening with no one the wiser and no one to see the burden he carried with him.

A dozen horrified faces looked at him. Expecting punishment, Tranquility, death. From _him._ Over _this._ One of the children started to cry. With a lurch of conscience, of memory, he recognized their terror. He was their desire demon, Kirkwall their purple prison. Meredith their Uldred.

_Maker,_ he thought, like a plea, like a prayer, but he could not even voice what he wanted. Forgiveness, perhaps. Courage. Something he no longer felt he deserved.

“These are mine,” he said, opening a crate in which two dozen books were neatly stacked. “Not the library’s. Not the Circle’s. The children might like the stories.”

No one moved. No one breathed. No one met his eyes.

“No templar walks this hall between the sixth and eighth evening bell.”

“Thank you,” whispered one child, whose wide eyes and curly mop put him in mind of Rosie. His sister had been about the same age when he’d left. But Rosalie’s eyes had never been so frightened; Rosalie had never gone even a single day without laughter. Rosie had reading after dinner and as much fresh air as she liked.

Rosalie would never recognize him now. And not just because he’d grown older.

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, with gruffness meant only for himself. “I should have done more. I’ll try—I have to—I _must_ do more.”

 

_Skyhold_

“Have you read them all?”

He lowered his book to his chest and raised his brows. Rose rolled over onto one side, propping herself up on her elbow. The glow of the candles limned her red curls in gold and caressed the line of her bare shoulder. “The books. In your office. Have you read them all? Or are they there for show? You do have some impressive, if rather frightening, titles.”

“I’ve read them.”

She grinned. “When do you find the time?”

He thought of words portioned out like morsels of food, words held hostage, words stolen. He thought of all the books he’d held over the years: the ones with fine, embossed leather covers; the ones half-falling apart; the ones missing pages. Some he’d loved and some he’d hated; all had changed him, in their ways both subtle and shattering. He’d been mocked and questioned and sometimes admired, but always, always he’d come back to books, to knowledge, with the thirst of a dying man desperate for the water only words could provide.

He marked his place with a pretty ribbon he’d earlier freed from her hair and set the book down beside the bed before turning to face her, mirroring her pose. “I make the time,” he said. “It is… I find it essential.”

“My parents read to me when I was a child,” she said. “But I did not seek books out until I came to Ostwick, and realized howlittle I knew about magic. Children half my age knew thrice what I did. So I read. I read and I read and I read. At first, I resented it. So much time. And then… and then one day I had time and no obligations, and realized all I wanted was to return to what I’d been reading the day before. Nothing so grand and grave as what you have, but… it sounds foolish, perhaps, but they were stories of ordinary people doing extraordinary things.”

“Not foolish,” he admitted, leaning close enough to press a kiss to her freckled cheek, then her freckled shoulder. “In the slightest.” He paused, suddenly shy, and not because of the kissing. “Do you want—shall _I_ read to you?”

Like the obedient child he doubted she ever was, she rolled onto her back, closed her eyes, and folded her hands across her belly. A moment later, she opened one eye and said, “I think I should read to you. You’re the one with the trouble sleeping.”

“We’ll take turns, then,” he said, reaching for his book of stories about ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Lads leaving their farms to fight for king and country. Lasses hunting down herbs to heal their ailing mothers.

A lad who thought he was saving a lass, only to find it was the other way all along.

That story. That was his favorite of all.

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt by atomicpen: Cullen and late-night reading.


End file.
